I’ve been dealt a handful of confetti past
trickling down my spine
like beads of lead into a glass of summer wine

All my experiences could easily fit
into a jar of primeval slime
and find their way to shoot minute stars,

while I am still lost at the crossroads of your body,
on the winding alleys of your skin

even though I can put on my checkered hat
and my Polaroid senses
and fly on an inflated witchy feeling
that I might never want to go back